escape your kiss
by dreamsbunnybitch
Summary: sirius is stuck in azkaban begging to be saved see how he bides his time with the creatures floating about


Sirius wakes to unadulterated darkness, uneven stone under his back. When he moves, chains bite into his wrists. Cold iron. That wakes him up, truly, so that he knows where he is, pain flooding him from head to heel.

James, dead. And Lily. And Peter...

He gags, chokes it back, the bile scorching his throat. So this is Azkaban. He wonders why he's alone. Maybe they're deciding what to do with him. They. He reaches instinctively for his wand. It isn't there, and he curses himself, curses the shudder that runs through him. It's only stale energy; there's nothing left to do, or fear.

After a minute or maybe an hour, he wrenches himself to his knees, resisting the shackles at his ankles and wrists. It isn't pitch dark as he thought. A slotted window, a few feet above him, admits a knife of frozen night sky. Sirius can see no stars. He gropes for the wall, shoulder to the stone, squinting through the darkness.

It's like looking up from the bottom of a well. If he could stand, his head would press the ceiling. If he could spread his arms, he'd be touching two walls at the same time. It hurts him to look down the narrow stretch of the cell, at the bars. They're blacker than black, thick as his legs, and they murmur to each other in gnawing, iron voices.

He grits his teeth, forcing his thoughts forward. There'll be a trial, in a week or a month; the Ministry likes to flaunt its prizes. He'll take the stand. His eyelids fall as he imagines telling them how it went:

Roaring down the street in bright daylight, so fast that everything blurs except for Peter's small, frantic form, unmistakable as he darts between buildings. An alley barely wide enough for the air to breeze through, but Sirius simply slams his way through it, knowing he'll catch up, he's faster than Peter that dirty rat, he's burning grief like grease, emerging into a crowd, and the chase suddenly over as Peter turns. Peter turning, face contorted, eyes glittering, wand raised, both their wands raised, and Peter screaming:

You killed James and Lily! In the words' echo, Peter is faster, and the daylight explodes.

Sirius comes up trembling from the fresh memory, unable to keep from vomiting this time. Unwelcome tears leak from the corner of his eyes. He wipes his mouth on his torn sleeve and drags his head up.

A shape flickers and catches his attention, ragged at the edges and almost indistinguishable at first. A Dementor. It's on the other side of the bars, but he can feel its cold fingers, creeping like shadows down the long cell and into his skull.

No. He flinches, like a kicked puppy. "No," he says, his voice raw, and then gathering strength, "I'm innocent." Dementors cannot laugh; they are eyeless and soulless. He knows this, yet he knows that it's laughing at him. He straightens his back against the wall and looks at where its eyes would be.

Dumbledore will believe him. Remus will believe him. He's got the best friends a man could want, eleven years with James Potter to draw on, and Peter...Peter burned in his own explosion. How's that for a happy thought? Sirius almost laughs out loud.

"Sod off," he bellows, toward the Dementor. It lingers for a moment and moves on, leaving him alone once more.

Sirius turns toward the window and breathes the clean northern air. He gulps it in again, and again, until his lungs feel clean and his pulse steadies. He's never been patient, but he can wait. -  
Days passed. And days became weeks. Which in turn became the better part of two months. In all of that time Sirius Black, locked in a cell in Azkaban, heard nothing from the outside world. He thought he might have received owls, but they never came, and neither did any visitors ... save for the guardians of Azkaban, the dementors, which lingered all-too-often outside him dank cell, draining from him every happiness, every good memory he had ever known without mercy or pity. What was merely meant to be formality following the defeat of Voldemort had turned into an eternity for him.

The human guards had not understood that he wasn't a Death Eater when he had been brought to the prison. They had stripped the robes from his back and given him nothing to wear in their place, tossing him naked into the cell, not caring about the cold and the damp. For whatever reason, possibly instructions from someone who knew better, he had not been allowed to keep a thing.

Stone by stone, the reality of Azkaban is collapsing onto his shoulders. He slumps against the wall, bashing his shoulder, jamming his fists against his eyes. Someone in a nearby cell is whining, a shrill, animal noise. And sirius realizes it's him; the moan is issuing from between his teeth. He can't stop it. The sound struggles out, though he clamps his jaw tighter, bites his tongue, and it turns into gibberish, and finally into words: "Kill me. Kill me. Kill me."

Long after he's run out of breath, his lips keep shaping the words. It's longer than that before he's able to raise his eyelids. The skeleton hands of a Dementor hover in front of his face and he screams.

No, they're his own hands and nothing else.

He is the nightmare in the cell. His breath frosts in the air, vanishing when he looks at it directly. sirius blinks. He should have known. They will not kill him. They will feed him, as long as they can feed off him.

An idea flickers across his mind, like a ghost moving in a crowded room. He looks at his hands again, turning them over to weigh the air. Kill you with kindness, that's what they say. Azkaban will take everything, except his life. -  
His skin turned to gooseflesh as he felt a dementor approaching the door. He moaned and crawled into the farthest corner of the tiny cell, wedging himself into the corner. His heart pounded in fear, but he had found a way to keep them from getting at some of his memories. And it didn't involve screaming for them to leave him alone, which had proven quite useless against dementors.  
his animagus form helped but not enough for him to forget their presence

Sirius wrapped one hand around his flaccid cock. He closed his eyes and prayed that he could still manage an erection. Just enough to give the dementor something else, another sort of happiness, enough pleasure to feed upon so that he could keep his memories. So that he could keep his... more pleasant memories.. of the life he had lead up until his imprisonement...

At first he had simply been able to picture the different partners he'd had aroused and ready for him.  
and that had been enough, but then those memories had been drained first of color and clarity and then of meaning so that all their nights of passion had become one gray blur in his much abused mind. Then he had imagined him doing mundane things like dressing or bathing or shaving in front of the mirror. Then those too were leeched from him. sirius had tried to fantasize about his many lovers, but without being able to remember the curve of their body, which he had looked upon so often and had known so well... the fantasies were empty and hollow.

after losing all of those memories, nearly every moment of passion he had known, sirius was desperate to protect the other memories he had of his life. Of james and lily and even harry. Of remus pouring them glasses of brandy to share by the fire. Of all those times their group had walked the castle grounds by the light of the waning moon. So many memories that he never wanted to lose, even more so than his intimate experience because those moments were so much more important ... so much more to Sirius in many ways.

Sirius cursed between his teeth as struggled to make himself hard through long, frenzied strokes that normally would have brought him off in just minutes. The dementor was lingering there at the bars to his cell. He could feel that loathsome creature there like it was watching him. He fisted himself harder trying to remember to feel... Coldness was starting to pervade his body...

-  
please, help me, he begged silently to no one in particular, attempting to draw air into his lungs as he inhaled.

He shivered as he grasped his cock in a firm, almost rough grip, feeling the dementor beginning to suck out his precious memories. Sirius knew that he was never going to be touched again and he was never going to touch another. just like he would never ever be able speak to his friends again. He was never going to leave Azkaban. He was going to die there in utter despair just like lily and james had died. He threw back his head and let out a keening cry of desperation, letting his hands fall into his lap.

He could still feel the presence of the dementor, but it seemed much farther away as he tried to lose himself in the pleasure he was able to give himself, He leaned back against the chilly stone wall behind him and continued rubbing against the slit of his weeping head, not minding that he was sullying himself, just thinking about the waves of pleasure that were starting to emanate from his groin.

Panting raggedly, Severus arched his back as he dampened his hands with his semen just moments later. He could feel the dementor retreating, just as sated as he was, by the experience. Maybe that should have bothered him, but Sirius found that he didn't care. He merely lay there gasping for breath with his hands still pressed to his softening cock. After a few moments, he nodded off with his fingers tangled in his lap.

Hours later Sirius to awoke to the sensation of someone gently pulling at his arm. He moaned in protest and opened his eyes. Warm breath ghosted over his face as he was tenderly shushed. He blinked at the amber eyes, full of tears, that looked so penetratingly into his own. Severus had never seen those eyes ... those eyes that looked like his own.

"I've come to get you, father," the child said softly.

"father?" furrowing his brow as he tried to remember the face he did not recognize from before being imprisoned in Azkaban.

"I will explain later just come with me. Sorry it's taken so long. said the stranger as he combed Sirius' hair away from his face before kissing him on the corner of the mouth.

"They were making me forget everything," Sirius whispered.

the stranger hushed him again and reached into a concealed pocket for his wand. "Later. We'll talk about everything later. Let's get you out of here first. All right?" Sirius merely nodded.  
"i see you put your body to good use" he said as he spoke a quick cleaning spell and handed him a simple jumper ... Can you wear this until we get out of here?"

Sirius nodded mutely and tried to help as the child that looked to be about 8 or 9 or so pulled the jumper over his head and began maneuvering his arms into the sleeves. He had lost so much weight that it hung from his shoulders.

"Let's stand you up," said the stranger whom was still a child before carefully hauling him to his feet. He tugged the hem of the cardigan over Sirius' hips and buttoned a button that had come undone. "Better than naught, I suspect," he said with a nod as he wrapped an arm around his waist to help him walk from the cell.

"Much better," Sirius murmured, leaning against the unknown child and breathing in his soft, unfamiliar scent.

To begin with, there's the sea. The sea he can't see. He has no idea of the tower's height, but somewhere directly down below is the rocky island, and the cold, cold water. There could be a freak storm, a wave to drag them all, walls and prisoners and guards, into oblivion with nothing more than a splash.

On a bad day all he can do is lie on the floor, flat as a shadow. Unable to think beyond the syllables of his name. Sirius Black. Sirius. A silly sort of name. It must mean something.

Secondly, destruction from above. You can ward against most lightning strikes, but-a meteor, maybe. A rock the size of the moon. It sounds unlikely. Anyway, perhaps Azkaban isn't where it's said to be. Perhaps it's really underground, upside-down, an ulceration in the bowels of hell. He can't be certain where they sent him; he was stone unconscious at the time.

At least he knows he isn't dead. He's seen dead. He raises his chin and looks at dead: a coffin is drifting aimlessly down the hallway, like a lost first-year trying to find the front door. Someone else having a bad day.

Thirdly, starvation. For weeks, maybe months, at a time he doesn't eat, and trays of dry bread and stringy meat pile up, spoiling and stinking. He experiences five stages of starvation: ordinary hunger, nausea, ravenous hunger, excruciating hunger, homicidal hunger. Each time, though, something surfaces out of his mind, out of the Black, a face he thinks he might have loved once, or maybe it's his old face. A dark-haired boy who laughs and says, what are you playing at?

Each time, he throws himself on the remnants of food and eats until he's sick. He crosses this off the list of possibilities.

On another bad day everything comes back to him at once. He mutters names to himself like dirty words. Sirius, Remus, Regulus, Albus, Andromeda, Lily, James. Peter. Yes, and he's allowed to recall the crime he's supposed to have committed. He endures five stages of grief: denial, anger, righteous anger, uncontrollable tears, denial. But never guilt. The knowledge of his innocence is tiny and terminally irritating. A pearl under his shell. He's already given up on the sea.

Fourthly, open rebellion. He's not dead, therefore he is alive, therefore he could fight, therefore he could die fighting. The worst the Dementors can do is Kiss him, and would that be so bad? He wonders. He pictures it, tastes it, almost craves it. One embrace and it's over, you lose your mind just as easily as your cherry. But the boy's voice comes up through the fog again, saying, Padfoot, you're going barking mad.

Then there are the occasional screams, and rain whipping the walls, and mice that glow unpleasantly and dash with strange urgency past the cell, but all of a sudden this senseless noise amounts to silence...  
The Dementor crouches down, so Sirius is staring into at the void where its face should be. The void contains a horrible hunger, and a horrifying intelligence. It doesn't speak, but he hears what it thinks.

face the facts: You're already dead.

It leaves Sirius alone in the cell.

James isn't there, shining with sudden inspiration. Dumbledore isn't waiting with his infinite smile. Sirius shuts his eyes, summoning all his power, and searches, and can't quite picture Remus's face.

"I never did it," he shouts to them. Not even an echo. No one's coming. Sirius tips his head back and laughs at himself until he's screaming.

and then he wakes up with a shock the boy is holding him down whisp locks of white hair fall down on his face trying to hold him down rememberring him of how those bony hands used to touch his face he wants to scream but the child he realizes does not have those bony hands nor the smell of rotten flesh no the child smells of decayed roses and the darkest of chocolates soothing him with those pale tender hands as the tears fall down his hollowed cheeks whispering soft words.. sleep.. sleep.. my precious..

amadeo odessee apollyon black was soothing his father has the tears fell down the fragile man's hollowed in cheeks sleep my father.. sleep... my beloved father see what they have done to you your fragile body not to mention you precious mind has been shattered by those undeserving of your time.. sleep.. sleep now father, so that you may recover soon...  
- No wizard has ever constructed an accurate portrait of a Dementor.

Nobody has ever numbered them, or calculated their-ages? Age? Nobody writes books about their history or their biology. Nobody knows how much they know.

They move through the spirals and tunnels of the fortress, sampling souls like candies in a box. They taste each person that they touch. Maybe they're blind, and deaf, and mute, but their sense of taste is exquisite, and they are always hungry. It's a painful hunger, held in abeyance for moments at a time but never diminished.

A soul tastes bitter and tough as an old crust. Another soul is like a honeysuckle blossom torn open. Another soul is weak, the way a very old man takes his tea.

About the rounds, a single Dementor pauses to savor a dying man's recollection of the purr of a sphinx, the rich darkness of it, and each of the Dementors is warmed, in passing. They complete one circuit and begin another. Dementors do not sleep, and as far back as they count such things, they do not die.

The Ministry doesn't classify them as Beasts, as it classifies vampires, nor does it classify them as Beings, as it classifies goblins. In fact, the laws don't mention them at all. Those who think about such matters assume that, at some point in history, an agreement must have been struck that bound them to the fortress of Azkaban, and compels them to obey Ministry guidelines. The term they use for this point in history is a Muggle term: once upon a time.

The Dementors possess little more than a vestigial memory of their own-and maybe this accounts for their unrelenting hunger; maybe they forget quickly that they have fed. Still, they know that once upon a time a wizard came to them, a very powerful wizard with a voice like the hiss of blood leaving a vein. He placed certain spells about the Dementors, and about the island, and after that there was less freedom, but there was also a food supply. They chose to accept the bonds, for reasons nobody else understands.

It happened before the Wizard's Council officially designated Azkaban as a prison-place and built the fortress around them. It happened, to be precise, before the Wizard's Council existed.

They allowed the Council to persist in its illusion of power, as they allow the Ministry to persist today. After a fashion, they even find this amusing.

Most commonly, they inspire despair in the wizards that meet them, and a sensation of extreme cold. This is because cold and despair are their natural conditions. They only experience pleasure second-hand. A first flight, a mother's breast, an absolutely perfect cup of tea in a chipped china cup. They take these things from their prey because they have nothing of their own, and that is all they're ever permitted to know of joy.

That, and the kiss.

Their kiss is a hook fitted for the soft flesh of the human heart. Their kiss is a grey alleyway with no known exit. Their kiss is an act of love: to take in all of a living soul, to draw it thin between their teeth, to the point of willing surrender-  
-ultimately there is always surrender. Their kiss is considered by the Ministry to be an inhumane punishment, and it's been a century since anyone was sentenced to it.

The Dementors are beginning to be aggrieved by this. No wizard knows whether they think, or how, or what they want. No wizard knows how long they're willing to wait. -


End file.
